


Blood on the Ice

by roelani



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Chaptered, Fantastic Racism, M/M, Redeeming the Bear, Sassy Dragonborn Takes No Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26232655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roelani/pseuds/roelani
Summary: I’ve been wanting to write some Bear of Markarth for a goddamn long while, so here it is. Featuring a DB I sort of made up for the occasion because I’ve never bothered to actually roleplay this flipping game, a short little Dunmer asshole who doesn’t have time to deal with the Stormcloaks’ BS. Also featuring: a lot of diagonal flirting, Ulfric is a damaged asshole but it’s okay, and actually dealing with the lifelong aftermath of torture since Bethesda is allergic to consequences.Be gentle with me, it’s been years since I last posted anything publicly.
Relationships: Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ulfric Stormcloak, Male Dunmer Character(s)/Ulfric Stormcloak
Comments: 17
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

It begins, as many such things do, in Spring. 

It begins not with a whisper, nor even with a cry, but with a Shout, loud enough to rattle the glass in the windows and shake the bare branches of every tree in Windhelm. 

_Dovahkiin_ , Shouted on the wind, borne down from the very heights of the Throat of the World. Shouted by the Greybeards themselves and announced to all in Skyrim who care to hear it. 

Twenty-six years nearly to the day after the end of the Great War and almost thirty since the last time Ulfric Stormcloak has heard the sky crack and echo with the Greybeards’ Thu’um, the Dragonborn is announced and named. 

It sends a ripple through the city—the parts of it that _matter_ —and the sons and daughters of Skyrim, toiling against the might of the Empire as they are, nearly vibrate with a palpable excitement. What might it mean, that the Greybeards, up on their mountains, have chosen this moment in time to name another great hero, born of the dragons’ blood? How fortuitous, that Skyrim births another now, when they so desperately need strong heroes. 

Leaders and generals, to drive the Empire out of their lands. 

The rebellion swells and thrives, like a small wave lapping further and further along the shore, as the tides turn. 

Ulfric, for his part, worries. 

His time with the Greybeards has taught him much, but life has since then taught him a lot more. Torygg’s death was calculated, and the arrival in Skyrim of another who knows how to wield the power of his or her own Voice can only complicate things.

The very last thing he needs now is a true rival; the Thalmor are his enemy. 

And they are terrible enough that he needs no others.

— — —

He starts hearing the word ‘Dragonborn’ a lot, after that day.

They are only stories, at first. Mad tales of braving ancient tombs and returning with riches beyond words. Wild exaggerations of battle prowess, of unbelievable feats of strength. To hear tell the men, this Dragonborn has already defeated several of his ancient kin and consumed their souls, no less. 

And then, disaster. 

Rumours of Balgruuf having bestowed the rank of Thane on a man whose legend is quickly becoming farcical. 

It throws a spectacular wrench in all of Ulfric’s plans regarding Whiterun, and he and Galmar argue for long, sleepless nights, debating the existence of this near mythical figure.

Galmar insists that he needs his own symbol, before this warrior starts courting the remaining neutral Jarls. He needs the Jagged Crown.

The search is a waste, of both time and resources they could better use elsewhere. This Dragonborn is a thorn in Ulfric’s side, digging itself further under his skin with every passing day, with every whispered rumour and every excited tale, muttered in passing or cheerily shared around an ale. 

What he _needs_ is for Balgruuf to find his own courage and stop bending over for the Thalmor. What he _needs_ is for Skyrim to rise up and throw away her shackles. Not, he argues with Galmar, for some legend to start firing up his people’s imaginations with grand tales of pointless heroism. 

Skyrim has survived dragons before. She can do so again, once she is free.

There remains, of course, a danger that Tullius could start courting the man, however unlikely that might be; Tullius is not a Nord. He cares little for legends and Shouts, for stories of ancient heroes and dangerous ruins. Tullius is a milk-drinking Imperial who has no love for the province he is forced to protect. 

Unless Rikke explains to him how important a Dragonborn’s support might be, in the coming months, there is little chance the Imperial would move to recruit him. 

No. So long as this Dragonborn does Tullius’ job of protecting Skyrim for him, the coward is unlikely to move.

The days turn. An encampment of Imperials is rooted out of the Rift and driven back towards Whiterun, their small fort taken and occupied by Stormcloak forces. If Laila Law-Giver will not openly support him, then Ulfric will simply take what he needs. The camp is expanded and regular patrols sent out. They do more bandit and bear killing than anything else, but it works.

Word travels fast, and the sons and daughters of Skyrim have strong voices to shout their allegiances with, and straight backs that refuse to bend. 

Before long, their new encampment is overflowing with eager young warriors. 

And Ulfric sets his sights on Whiterun.

Built to withstand sieges and direct assault, the capital of Balgruuf’s hold is a nightmare to conquer. And everyone knows it. Whoever can manage to hold it will have a definite advantage in this war, something that Balgruuf himself inevitably knows. Which makes his current refusal to commit his forces either way all the more frustrating.

Balgruuf cannot sit on his thumbs forever. If Ulfric has to take the city by force, then he will. He _must_.

He spends his days poring over maps of the plains, trying to formulate a strategy that would let him capture Whiterun with minimal damage to its fortifications.

They need, after all, to be able to hold it, once the city is theirs, and Ulfric has neither the time nor the men to both repair the battlements and wage his war.

This needs to be a swift and decisive one. The longer it drags on, the more the people of Skyrim suffer. The more the Thalmor profit from the unrest. Ulfric has no love for the Empire, but it is the Aldmeri Dominion he wants to see fallen and destroyed. If it means feeding the rest of Tamriel to the flames of war, so be it. 

And if Skyrim has to die, then by the Nine, she will die _free_ of the Thalmor’s meddling influence.

This night he has no energy left to spare. His mind is on war, on the logistics of moving, and feeding, and caring for his army. On the movements of Imperial troops and the ever increasing reports of dragon attacks in the hold. 

A mess, in short. 

Ulfric does not notice that anyone has entered the hall until he hears the soft rustle of cloth, the muted thumping of quiet, soft leather boots and the bright, shocking little rap of someone playing fingertips over the polished surface of the long oak table. He looks up and finds a dark shape, diminutive in size, with a heavy, deep hood drawn up over their head. 

It is much too dark, even with the many candles, to make out this visitor’s features, and whoever they are they seem to be making a concerted effort to keep it that way, nonchalantly walking into a patch of darker shadow. 

“I was expecting, hmm. Something a little more ostentatious, I suppose. I could hear about _nothing else_ on the road here. Palace of the Kings, Ysgramor’s line, oldest keep in Skyrim,” the figure says, in a voice that sounds very definitely male. “It was all made to be quite impressive.”

And _very_ definitely not a Nord.

“You may return in the morning, when my steward can see you,” Ulfric states, scowling now because the hour is late enough that this man should have been turned away at the door.

A bribe, perhaps.

“A fair assumption. I _may_ indeed return tomorrow.” There is the very distinct impression of a smile, even in the shadows. “But as I am here _now_ , I thought I would sate my curiosity. Jarl Ulfric.”

A gloved hand appears from under the softness of a nearly black, flowing cloak, and quite breezily snatches a single green apple from the nearest bowl resting on the long table.

Ulfric sets his quill down, and gets to his feet. 

It becomes suddenly quite clear that this visitor is much shorter than the way he carries himself suggests, and the accent now makes a lot more sense. Not a Nord. Not even a man at all.

“My days are unfortunately busy. You may sate your curiosity elsewhere, friend. There are _other_ places in the city you might likely find more appropriate—”

He is interrupted by a short bark of laughter, raspy and throaty, and the figure finally reaches up and tugs the hood back from over his head. 

The pointed ears confirm it, and the sallow, grey skin spells it out. Some dark elf has just brazenly walked right inside the Palace. And he looks half wild, not at all like the grey-skins Ulfric is used to seeing, loitering around the Grey Quarter. 

No, this one is nearly exotic in his oddness, long limbed and skin dark, so like the ash his kin purportedly fled. He wears his hair shorn very close to the skin either side of his skull, the centre raised into a wild, uneven series of curls and points and tied at the back in a few braids. 

The armour is unfamiliar, made of boiled leather just a few shades darker than his grey skin and practically moulded to his shape. He carries a few daggers at his belt, and an enormous longbow over his shoulder. 

No warrior, this. 

“Who are you,” Ulfric demands, less as a question and more as a formality. 

The elf’s eyes seem to practically glow in the gloom, reflecting the light of the candles burning around them. He looks like some creature straight out of Oblivion.

“My name is not one you would know, Jarl Ulfric,” the elf replies, in his odd, lilting accent.

And there is something else, echoing behind his voice. It settles like knowledge in the gaps of Ulfric’s perception, and his next question is entirely unnecessary. 

But he asks it anyway, because the answer is just absurd enough that he _has_ to hear it said. 

“And what does Master Arngeir call you?”

The damnable elf laughs again, and this time not without more than a hint of mockery. 

“You should turn your eye to your own city, Jarl. People are dying in the streets, and not only in your Grey Quarter,” he replies, through a smile that looks less amused than it does threatening. “By your leave, I shall go and find myself some _suitable_ accommodations for the night.”

And he _bows_ , deeply, bending at the waist until his forehead practically touches the table, all the while with that mocking little smile on his lips.

When the elf _finally_ leaves him alone, Ulfric realizes he has pilfered at least two silver cups.

— — —

The Dragonborn, it feels like, haunts him, after that.

He visits Windhelm every few weeks, stopping in the Grey Quarter to rest, presumably. And sets about single-handedly solving all of the city’s troubles. First, the mad killer roaming the streets is caught and killed, and even Jorleif is uncertain how that feat was accomplished, since everyone thought the man responsible for the murders was the damned court wizard.

Then a dragon is killed, freeing the roads up for trade.

A week later, Ulfric is told that the bandits who had been terrorizing the Khajiit caravans were found, to a man, dead in their camp, littered with sharp little arrows tipped with ebony and dipped in an unknown poison.

He has no time for this, but even when rumours are silent, the thrice-cursed elf is on his mind. How much has he learned? Is he following the Greybeards’ Way of the Voice, or has he decided to be a free agent in the world? And what of the many skirmishes, between Stormcloaks and the Imperial legion? The war rages on, all over Skyrim, and yet not once has the Dragonborn involved himself.

Has he spoken with Tullius, perhaps? Have they lost his support simply for the colour of his skin?

And on and on it goes, until Ulfric is driven out of his own bedchambers to wander the halls, _fuming_ as he trips over pointless uncertainty.

He can win this war without the Dragonborn’s support.

Two months into the harshest winter Skyrim has known in years, the elf simply walks into the Palace of the Kings. Again.

Unannounced and nearly invisible as he wanders in, Ulfric only sees him because he stops near a few candles and simply... stands there. Shivering. The thick fur hood is drawn over his head again, but the shape of him is unmistakable, for all that the memory has been haunting Ulfric.

“—and yet Balgruuf does _nothing_. You should consider that inaction speaks as loud as allegiance. The other Jarls almost certainly do,” Galmar Stone-Fist is saying.

He stops, when he realizes Ulfric is distracted, turning towards the figure huddled near the great table.

“The Jarl is busy, citizen,” Stone-Fist barks. “Come back when—”

“It’s alright, old friend,” Ulfric interrupts. “This one likely has his reasons. Am I right, Dragonborn?”

A shift of a slim shoulder is the only response, at first. Then, “Oh, I don’t know. I keep coming back here and it remains, very firmly, a shithole.”

Several things happen very quickly. 

Galmar’s eyes go wide, and he coughs out a surprised sort of noise before drawing his war axe from over his shoulder. The Dragonborn turns, slips the hood off his head and settles a hip nonchalantly against the oak table. 

And Ulfric gets to his feet, face set like a dark storm. 

“Stand _down_ , Galmar,” he hisses, and it comes out with an echo, as though his Thu’um is stuck in his throat and _clamouring_ to put this grey-skinned worm in his place. He waits until his second in command does as told, the great war axe falling back in its short sheathe at Galmar’s back. 

“You have _some_ nerve, elf—”

“I wish to purchase property in your hold, my Jarl,” the elf replies, distressing orange eyes fixed on Ulfric’s own. Galmar’s threat goes completely ignored.

Ulfric blinks at him. “You may not—”

“Have I not done your hold many services already? Balgruuf named me Thane for less than this,” he continues, crossing slim arms with a creak of soft leather.

“There are a lot of things wrong with what Balgruuf does with his hold,” Ulfric replies, slowly lowering himself back onto the throne of Windhelm. “Not the least of which who he chooses to ally himself to.”

The elf’s stare never moves away, steady and calculating. “I often have business in Winterhold, and am in need of a place to rest along the road south. Give me Hjerim.”

Ridiculous, that those words would even come out of that dark throat.

This time it is Galmar who laughs, loud and boisterous. Ulfric shakes his head at him, and the old warrior takes his leave. He does not need to turn to order Jorleif out; the man knows when to make himself scarce. He simply waits until the door has closed behind his stewart, and settles elbows over his knees, staring down the elf who _dares_ make demands of him.

“ _No_.”

It is final. The word falling between them with the hint of Ulfric’s Thu’um behind it. And all it does is pull at the elf’s full lips, tugging the corners upwards into a smirk that does _terrible_ things to Ulfric’s mind. His resolve. His gut.

“Give me Hjerim and discipline your guards so they patrol the Grey Quarter _properly_ ,” the elf replies, still smiling. “The price will only go up every time you refuse.”

“The price for _what_?” Ulfric thunders.

“I wish to join the Stormcloak Rebellion.”

Ulfric’s heart stops, thuds once down into his feet, and starts again. He scowls a furious glare at the elf, stepping up from the throne to stalk down the dais and stand a bare few inches from him. This creature, diminutive and slight, who can kill dragons with his voice and decimates entire camps full of hardened Nords, only looks up at him. 

This infuriating little _shit_ only smiles and meets Ulfric’s glare, waiting with the patience of kings. 

“You wish to _bribe_ me into accepting your support,” Ulfric guesses, finally understanding. “You wish me to _announce_ it.”

Silence, and the elf’s smile widens. 

He is a thief and a scoundrel, a coward who tips his arrows in poison. And Ulfric _needs_ him as much as he detests him.

“Not now. But in a few months. I have... business at the embassy. It seems unlikely the Empire will forgive my trespasses,” the elf states, calm as anything.

But the words make something twist unpleasantly in Ulfric’s gut, and it feels like all of his tendons suddenly _scream_ in remembered pain. He hides a shudder, closes his eyes against the memories, and shakes his head. “You should stay far away from that place, Dragonborn. You will find nothing good there.”

“Rathyn. Ildrerus,” he offers, in lieu of an answer, the soft words falling from his exotic tongue like a quiet brook. “My name. Folks who think I can’t hear it just call me Rat. Elenwen has information I need.”

Ulfric hisses in a breath through his teeth, and turns away. 

“She will destroy you if you let her,” is all that he can say. All that he can bring himself to say. It feels like hours before his throat loosens enough that he can force the rest of the words out. “If you survive it, and you pledge yourself to the Rebellion, then you will have Hjerim. And your announcement.”

He hears nothing for the space of a few breaths. And he knows what the elf is seeing, in the set of his shoulders, in the way he has tensed up. There is nothing he can do about it, and he only offers the other his profile when soft rustling indicates the elf is straightening up and away from the table. 

“Then we have an accord, my Jarl,” Ildrerus says, before bowing again and taking his leave.

Ulfric cannot bring himself to think of him as Rat. A rat scurries in the dank shadows, and this one may be grey and small and subtle, but he plays a game of Kings and Gods, and the stakes are the fates of nations.

He risks his body and his sanity. 

Ulfric should have asked him _why_.

It is only when the great doors of the Palace firmly clatter shut that Ulfric turns, and realizes the elf has made off with several pieces of silver cutlery.

He snorts.


	2. Chapter 2

The Thalmor Embassy is a _nightmare_.

Malborn apparently believes him capable of cursed miracles. Rat has no clue what Delphine told the man, but he seems to think him capable of the grandest feats. And Thalmor justiciars, it turns out, are very adept at magic. All sorts of bloody magic, including the kind that would make Rat’s hair stand on its end if it weren’t shorn so close to his skull.

As it stands he barely survives, and when the dust settles and Malborn finally bars the doors and announces the coast clear—for now—Rathyn slumps against the nearest pillar, breathing hard enough to wheeze. 

He loathes it here. The sooner they can get out of this dungeon, this hole, the better he will feel. 

The walls feel like they are closing in, and he has to force himself to look away from the bloodstains. The pliers and the pincers and the... glistening _lumps_ , piled in one corner, near one of the racks. 

Vile torture. 

Needless suffering. This is not how anyone should have to go, no matter what they may have done.

There is no excuse for this cruelty.

He finds some half-mad prisoner, starved thin and dirty, wearing nothing but rags and delirious enough to plead for his life when Rat approaches him. He has to reassure the man that he’s not like them. He is not Thalmor, he is _not_ Altmer.

All the poor bastard sees are the ears, and the eyes.

It takes what feels like hours for him to calm down enough to explain, what this place is. What Elenwen has been doing.

Rathyn very gently unlocks the injured man’s shackles, once he has exhausted himself talking, and Malborn helps him prop the much larger human up, to rest. 

He will get this man out of here if it kills him.

Étienne is the Breton’s name, some poor idiot in the wrong place at the very wrong time. Someone he recognizes from his time spent in the Ratway, though with Malborn here, he daren’t risk explaining.

But Étienne’s presence here is confirmation enough. The Thalmor are looking for the Blades, and they are getting close. Delphine was right. Now all that remains is to find out what they know.

Something which turns out to be simpler than expected. 

Rathyn sets to searching the dungeon while Malborn helps Étienne slowly find his feet. And he finds what he needs. Written proof that the Thalmor are looking for the Blades. Written proof that they are not behind the dragon attacks.

Written proof that Ulfric is a Thalmor agent.

It makes no sense.

Even without the dire warning, it would have made no cursed sense, and Rathyn pockets the thin journal without a word, heart tripping uncomfortably in his chest, and nods to Malborn that he is ready to leave.

The dossier, thin and innocuous as it might be, feels like it burns a hole in the pocket of his jacket the entire, arduous trip out through the sewers. They encounter a troll, easily dispatched because at this point Rat has had _enough_ , and he no longer cares if the entire Thalmor embassy hears; the troll goes flying back against the rock wall with his shout, and he keeps it there with the force of his Thu’um until the poor thing is nothing more than a pincushion, riddled with arrows.

Malborn is fairly boggling at him when they finally exit out into the dark, crisp air of a moonless night. 

It is, of course, _frigid_.

Rat almost whines. He hates the cold. The mountains. The damned trees that make it nearly impossible to plan an ambush properly. This land is as stubborn as her people. Strong. Complicated. 

_Infuriating_.

He loses track of time, after that. Bids Malborn goodbye. Waits until the Bosmer has disappeared before reconvening with Étienne, because now that they are alone, Rat can afford to publicly recognize the man as a member of the Thieves’ Guild. 

They shake hands, and he promises to check in soon. Asks after Brynjolf. Smiles.

All the while his hands shake, and his breath turns quick, until Étienne is finally gone.

He has to spend an inordinate amount of time moving safely away from the embassy, then chopping some wood. Then setting up camp in the mouth of an abandoned sabre cat den that someone, possibly years ago, once converted into a temporary shelter.

It is hours later, once he has a fire _safely_ burning bright and warm, that Rathyn eventually dares to slip the thin journal from his jacket. He settles, gingerly and carefully, near the warmth of his roaring fire. 

And reads.

He reads of treachery and torture, of breaking a man with lies and freeing him only to see where he might stumble. Of _using_ his futile stumbling to further Thalmor interests.

He reads of a cycle broken, despite everything.

 _Uncooperative_ . The war might profit the Aldmeri Dominion indirectly, but they consider whatever investment they may have made in _breaking_ Ulfric Stormcloak to now be worthless. 

And now Rat has a choice. He has no idea how much of this is knowledge that the Jarl of Windhelm already possesses. Is he even aware that the information he was fed was false? Does it matter, now that civil war is raging all around them?

Would this journal, clinical and cold, only make things worse? Would even the knowledge that Rat has obviously read it insult a man he has trouble understanding? 

Questions which he has no answers to.

But part of him mourns that Elenwen did not fall under his arrows.

Next time, perhaps. 

At least now he knows that the Jarl’s warning was borne of true regret, and not simply the musings of a man wanting to keep a potential ally away from seeing his opponent’s side.

There _is_ no choice to be made. Rat has never been particularly interested in politics, preferring to roam and wander, as his ancestors once did. It was always in his blood, and it remains so, even when the entire world wants to tug and pull at him. 

He does not _care_ about the Empire. He owes nothing to the Aldmeri Dominion. 

He owes no allegiance to _anyone_.

He needs to go back to Windhelm.


	3. Chapter 3

Ulfric sees no black hair nor grey hide of this Rathyn Ildrerus for several weeks. He gets, of course, no news out of the embassy. The Empire hardly keeps him abreast of the goings-on of the Thalmor, and even his best spies know to stay well clear of the embassy itself. 

It is exceedingly well-guarded, and isolated enough that anyone caught up in those mountains would be certain to simply disappear. 

He has not risked sending anyone that close. Not simply to satisfy his curiosity. 

And there is plenty else to occupy his troops. And his own mind. 

Their grip on the Rift solidifies over the following weeks, and he dares a few patrols along the borders of Whiterun hold. Two men are lost in a skirmish with a group of Imperial soldiers who were seemingly given similar orders, but the Imperial patrol is decimated. 

It is an empty victory, since Balgruuf responds negatively to Ulfric’s initial offer of an alliance. Unfortunate, though not entirely unexpected. 

Galmar, Ulfric thinks, feels it more as an affront than  _ he _ does. They have served together for so long, shedding blood first for the Empire and now for Skyrim, and he knows the old warrior is a passion-driven man. Ulfric has to field an impassioned plea to act against Whiterun, to answer this humiliation with fierce, decisive action, and Ulfric tempers his old friend’s fervour with caution borne of a deep, exhausted desire for peace.

He knows they will lose men in this war, many of them. And the Imperials, the Thalmor, are ruthless. He does not relish sending good men and women—brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—to their deaths, no matter how just, how important the cause might be. 

Skyrim has already bled for the Empire. 

It should have been enough.

It seems it never is. 

Ulfric spends most of his night rehashing plans he has already discussed, pouring over maps he already knows by heart. This night is no exception. It is already quite late when he decides to turn in, the sun long set below the horizon. 

The season is also late, and the days are short and dark, the nights even darker. 

Windhelm is cold, and growing colder with every passing day. The snow piles in the streets, nearly chest high already, and small eddies and drifts are already accumulating in the carved windows of his rooms.

Or, they would be, if something had not recently disturbed them. 

Ulfric’s brow creases into a frown when he steps into his bedchamber. The tall, patterned window panes have clearly been opened and closed again. Even without the snow, it would be easy to tell; the air is frigid, as though someone has opened them to the harsh, bitter winter chill. 

He steps into the uneven gloom slowly, one hand resting on the handle of the axe he wears at his belt.

The fire in the hearth is still raging, sending wild shadows dancing, across the familiar contours of his own room. 

Across the carved wooden bed, across a few dressers. Bear skins on the cold stone floors.

A shape, near the hearth, bent into a small curl. 

“Who goes there?” Ulfric barks, voice strong and even, as he lets the heavy oak door swing shut behind him.

The figure shudders and swells, just once, like a sigh. 

“I said—“

“I heard you the first time,” a voice says, sounding entirely too peeved to be an assassin. “ _ Why _ is this gods-forsaken city so  _ fucking _ cold?” it continues. “Oh, don’t get me wrong,  _ all _ of Skyrim is a cursed wasteland, but Windhelm? Windhelm is frigid. Somehow it is colder  _ here _ than in Winterhold, and it—The bloody place is called  _ Winter _ hold. It isn’t even that windy, here. Just... I can barely feel my toes, and your hearth was nearly black and cold when I... arrived.”

Ulfric lets his hand fall away from his axe, slowly. The shape is not particularly familiar, but the voice  _ is _ .

“Dragonborn?”

“ _ Yes _ , Dragonborn. For pity’s sake. I had to scale your wall.”

“What—”

“Candlehearth Hall is not particularly friendly to my kind, and I hardly felt like weathering Ambarys’ relentless... Hmm. Never mind.” The curled-up shape slowly unfurls, revealing itself to be the somewhat familiar sight of the dunmer, grey-skinned, hair still a wild, sharp spike, ears and nose still pierced with exotic jewellery. 

His eyes are still an odd, orange glow, as though burning with some inner fire Ulfric can only hope to cautiously circle, like a wild animal. 

“Who?”

“Ambarys. The owner of the New Gnisis Cornerclub,” Ildrerus explains, unhelpfully. After a few moments’ worth of blank staring, he adds, “The tavern, in the Grey Quarter? You—By the nines, you need to get out of this palace.”

“The palace you have snuck into, without regard for the guards who roam its halls or the men whose lives you may endanger?” Ulfric asks, drier than the air that flows from the mountains. 

The Dragonborn  _ flinches _ , slim shoulders slumping into another curl. “I have my reasons,” he offers, quieter. 

And nothing more, after that. 

“Hmm. This Ambarys,” Ulfric offers, into silence.

The elf simply stares at the hearth, looking miserable, cloak clinging wetly to his hunched-over shape. He is still unmistakably alien.  _ Other _ . His skin is sallow and grey, his profile nearly inhuman, forehead sloping into a graceful nose, eyes slanted upwards, brow soft.

And yet that discomfort is universal. Ulfric knows exactly what it feels like, to exhaust oneself to the point of near unconsciousness if only because it drives off the bitter, bone-deep chill of the dry mountain wind. The uncomfortable sweat that beads along one’s back, the way the moisture can leech the warmth from a man’s limbs faster than his trembling lips can form around words. Faster than he can ask for help.

He sighs and moves towards the hearth, bending to grab a few additional logs and throwing them into the fire. 

“I would not turn you away, Dragonborn, simply for the shape of your ears.”

A lie. A simplification.

He would turn others of his kin away, and never give it a second’s thought. He would turn  _ Nords _ away if the good of the province demanded it. 

He  _ will _ turn an old ally, a friend, away, if Balgruuf refuses to see sense.

“You’re an  _ appalling _ liar,” the elf mumbles, through clattering teeth. 

Ulfric does not answer him, simply steps away so the other can step close. He has chairs, of course, but they are apparently too far from the hearth for the Dunmer’s taste. Ildrerus sits cross-legged right in front of the flames, dark hands extended, slim fingers describing graceful arcs as he warms them.

Ulfric turns away, feeling oddly like he is seeing something he should not.

“I trust your business at the embassy went well?” he asks, stepping away from the hearth, briefly. 

The elf may have water in his veins, but the room is sweltering, and Ulfric is wearing heavy leathers, heavy chainmail, heavy plate and thick fur on top of all that. He shrugs the furs off, at least, and starts working at the straps that hold the plate armour. 

If the Dragonborn is here to sink a blade between his ribs, then he is being needlessly patient about it.

“Business,” the elf eventually sighs, as though the word costs him. “I should have heeded your warning. She is  _ ruthless _ .” 

Ulfric stops, one hand busy at his throat, and glances aside at the elf’s thin, scowling shape. “You seem to have survived her unscathed—“

“Others did not,” the elf interrupts, glum.

Ulfric says nothing. Empty platitudes rarely serve as comfort in the face of remembered torture. He knows. He  _ remembers _ .

“If you require it, I can fetch the court wizard—“ he eventually starts, after an odd silence.

“I know about your ‘escape’,” Ildrerus interrupts. 

Ulfric freezes, hand curled around the strap of his armour, at his side. 

“About the interrogation and the—Elenwen,” the elf continues, haltingly. “She kept—There were journals. They contacted you again, the Thalmor. They list you as an ‘asset’.”

The words fall like blades, stripping the breath from Ulfric’s lungs. 

It took years to forget the months he spent in that dank cell. The dungeon, the darkness, the despair and the  _ pain _ . Elenwen’s careful, meticulous torture, until all he knew was the discomfort of healing wounds and setting bones.

The Great War ended, for him, not in a grand battle or a heroic death, but in the crushing shame of a very personal defeat. Elenwen bested him, she sneered and laughed and jeered, fine features twisted in a cruel mask that Ulfric still sees in his sleep, a face he imagines in every grey shape that lurks his own city’s streets.

She knew exactly where to sink the blade, that it would ache for hours. For years afterwards, radiating like a throb when the weather turns foul.

He shoves his cowl aside, the heavy fur crumpling into a mess of coiled leather and coarse wolf hair on top of the nearest dresser.

“So it is to be blackmail,” Ulfric spits on an exhale.

There is a beat of odd silence, and the sound of the elf getting very quickly to his feet. Ulfric turns to him with his hand resting against the handle of his axe.

“What?  _ No _ —What?” Ildrerus hisses, smooth brow creased into a frown. “I just—thought... I thought you should have it. Safer here, regardless.”

Ulfric looks down as the elf struggles to tug a leather-bound journal from his pack. And back up again.

“Why?” he asks. “You hold in your hand what you need to cripple this war. You have already proclaimed yourself above this conflict—”

“Would you just...” The elf huffs, visibly agitated. He steps closer, small grey hands reaching for Ulfric’s, and presses the slim volume into his grip. “I want nothing to do with this. Whatever you can glean, whatever it means to you, it is  _ yours _ .”

“There is nothing the Thalmor can put to words that I do not already know, Dragonborn,” Ulfric offers bitterly, once the elf steps away again.

The folio feels like it burns a hole through his hand. He does not need to open it to know its contents. It was only months after his escape that he realized that Elenwen played him like a very well-tuned, raw lute. He knows now that whatever information he fed her amounted to  _ nothing _ . That his desperate confessions in that rank dungeon did not doom the Empire to a shameful surrender.

That the city was fallen long before his own traitorous sobs sold their locations, their encampments, their plans.

Knowledge gleaned from his captors, months later, when he was imprisoned in Cidna Mine.

He has to fight himself to not simply throw the slim journal into the fire. Instead, he very carefully deposits it on the nearby dresser.

“But I thank you for your discretion.”

The elf is staring at him. “That’s it? ‘I thank you for’—” He stops, turns away, hands rough against his own scalp as he rakes fingers into what little hair he keeps. “You speak the truth. I could easily have used this to discredit you. Spin a tale of treason and cooperation with the Thalmor. I could paint you a villain.” He sighs. “I probably should have. I probably should not have come back here at all. And you probably should have turned me away.”

“I do not live my life with my head in the sand, Dragonborn,” Ulfric replies, after a beat. “And neither should you.”

“Neither should anyone, ideally,” the elf muses, quieter.

Ulfric hesitates. 

The other man, slight as he usually is, looks frail, as though recent events have pushed him beyond his limit. He is still shivering, hard, despite the heavy warmth that has settled in the room.

“You should rest, elf,” Ulfric states, perhaps a little shorter than he intends. “I can call for rooms to be prepared for you.”

“Hmm, you’re right. I  _ should _ rest. But that hardly seems like the way things tend to go, does it?” the elf grumbles, apparently to himself. After a few oddly tense moments, he adds, “Is it because of  _ her _ , that you hate us so much?”

The question takes Ulfric by surprise, and he steps back, half a step. 

The elf follows.

“I do not  _ hate you _ ,” he protests. “I  _ detest _ the Empire for rendering mine and every other prisoner’s suffering  _ moot _ . I loathe the jarls too soft and comfortable to dare stand up to an enemy who needs to resort to torture and subterfuge to remain in power. The Thalmor have no place in Skyrim. It has little to do with the shape of their ears, and everything to do with the values they espouse.”

The elf sighs. 

“I’m not sure if that is even better or worse.” And he offers a smile, small and stilted. “They clamour for  _ your _ help, out in the city.”

It takes Ulfric by surprise. How nice it looks, tugging very slightly upwards at the elf’s dark lips. How honest it feels.

The elf, of course, notices the brief shift in his attention. Ulfric clears his throat, brows furrowed into a deep scowl.

“My help goes to Skyrim, and all her sons and daughters, first,” he states, firmly. “Whatever you may think, elf,  _ yes _ , this includes your kin. But a war is not waged simply with pretty words and convincing arguments. Your kin is  _ not _ raising a blade for Skyrim’s fortune. And every single Nord in this hold  _ is _ .”

“And that’s all it is, numbers?” the Dunmer breathes, too close to feel entirely real.

“That’s all war  _ ever _ is, Dragonborn,” Ulfric replies, equally soft.

It seems another long moment before the elf turns away. Ulfric has to weather that stare, and Ildrerus seems to realize his discomfort when he glances down, smooth, fine brows knotting in a small frown. 

Ulfric sneers even as the apology leaves the Dunmer’s lips.

“I’m—”

“I know my own mind, elf. Do not presume,” Ulfric interrupts, jaw tight around words he would not wish to throw at an ally.

He looks  _ nothing _ like Elenwen. Nothing like any of his captors, like the torturer who dogged his sleep for months and now haunts his nights. Nothing like the justiciars, with their high-browed, gaunt faces and their long, slim fingers. 

The Dunmer is short, even for his kind. It helps.

“I should have expected stubbornness,” the elf sighs, barely above a breath. “All you Nords are. Stubborn and frustratingly honest. I debated going to Tullius with the journal. I… am not certain why I did not.”

“Rikke likely knows whatever you now know,” Ulfric says, after a few moments spent to clear the tightness from his throat. “Why she has kept her silence so far is unclear to me.”

Ildrerus glances aside at him, as though mindful now of the shape of his own ears, of whatever Ulfric might read in his odd, reflective eyes. 

“Knowledge can be applied to someone, like a lever. You know this.”

He seems hesitant now, and Ulfric reaches out, wraps a hand none-too-gently around the elf’s shoulder and shoves at him until he is spun to face him. The leather is practically moulded to him, thin and stretched tight over his limbs, and it feels odd to dare this much. This is the man who has stolen from the Palace of the Kings, who sits in the shadows and sends arrows tipped with poison into men three times his weight. 

The  _ elf  _ whose Thu’um matches his own. 

“You have broken into  _ my  _ keep, like a common thief,” Ulfric hisses, fingers tightening briefly, digging into the elf’s shoulder. “You dare make demands of me. You wave the threat of blackmail under my nose, and withhold your support as though this war is a  _ game _ , a diversion into which you might deign to dip your toes if I bend to your demands. Afford me at least the respect to not treat me like a broken man.”

His tirade seems to shake the elf aware, and Ulfric  _ almost _ regrets insisting when he finds himself pinned by those odd eyes. 

“I do not  _ fear _ you, Dragonborn. I fear your inaction.”

Losing the battle for his support, because all of Skyrim is rallying behind his exploits. Losing the opportunity to end this war more swiftly than would otherwise be possible. Time is against him; with enough men under his banner, Ulfric could simply take Solitude and  _ hold _ it. Rob Tullius of its fortified keep and unite all the holds under one true king. The longer the Imperial forces are allowed to flourish and build up their strength, the harder it will be to uproot them.

And the longer he waits for that final, decisive blow, the weaker the Empire becomes.

Ulfric knows what lurks behind it.

“I have already pledged my support to you, Jarl Ulfric,” the Dragonborn replies, unmoving. “And I do not believe you broken, forgive me. I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Ulfric sighs, forcing himself to let go of that slim shoulder.

The next few breaths are stilted and odd, the elf now standing too close, and either too proud or uncertain to move away. His eyes reflect the flickering of the flames in the hearth like lanterns, and Ulfric is not even certain where the other is looking. What he must be seeing.

He is scowling, jaw tight around something he can scarce name. Regret, perhaps. If the man had been born  _ human _ , things would have been considerably easier. 

A Dunmer, with Akatosh’s blessing, born of His blood. 

A final insult.

“Candlehearth Hall will suffice, my Jarl,” Ildrerus eventually voices into the awkward silence. “There is no need to bother your staff for a room. Give me a few days to rest, and I will take the pledge.”

Ulfric feels unmoored, as though the stones of the palace under his feet are no longer anchored into the past. “Good. See Galmar Stone-Fist when you are ready; he will find you something to do, to aid in the war effort.”

The words feel rote. Wrong.

The elf only nods, bending very briefly at the waist before he steps away. 

He leaves the journal behind, sitting on the dresser where Ulfric left it. 

He has never been more uncertain of someone’s loyalties. It seems like folly, to allow this man, this  _ elf _ , so many liberties. The Dunmer comes and goes as he pleases, stinking of death and poison, thieving wherever he goes. He is unpredictable and  _ dangerous _ , trained in the Way of the Voice. Subtle and dark, skulking in the shadows like an assassin.

By the Nine, there are even rumours that he has involved himself in the Dark Brotherhood,  _ right here in Windhelm _ . 

And yet, as the door closes behind him, all Ulfric knows is the sudden, crushing loneliness of his own thoughts, memories previously kept at bay by the shared knowledge of a common enemy. 

Perhaps the elf is right. 

Perhaps Ulfric  _ should _ walk the streets of the Grey Quarter.


	4. Chapter 4

Rat remains true to his word.

He only rests for two days, despite how bone-deep the weariness is, after that mess at the embassy and the near week-long trek through wilderness to return to Windhelm. 

He pays an absolutely criminal price of fifteen septims for the first night, and, when he asks to keep the room for a second night, the innkeep actually charges him another five on top of the original price. There is little he can do outside of argue about it, however, and he is too exhausted and glad for the warmth to bother.

It hardly makes a dent in his coin pouch, regardless. 

Nordic ruins tend to be quite full of coin. Or interesting relics to sell. Or simply explorers and adventurers too stupid to remain safely outside of draugr-infested caverns. 

In a pinch, Rat is also perfectly capable of finding his coin in _other_ places. Nothing the Jarl would approve of, but he hasn’t planned to remain in Candlehearth Hall long enough to have to resort to thievery. 

He ends up taking the pledge with Galmar, as requested, and Ulfric is nowhere in sight when he does. Either too busy with his maps or simply hiding. 

Rathyn can hardly blame him. Even he feels uncomfortable with the sort of knowledge he has gleaned of the human. It seems a very personal thing, torture. 

How Elenwen manages to sleep at all is beyond him. 

Galmar insists on sending him to battle some ice wraiths out on the frozen sea, and Rat has to argue that he hasn’t got time to prove he knows how to shoot a few arrows. In the end he simply digs a few wraith teeth out of his pack and slams them in front of Ulfric’s second-in-command to shut him up.

The man laughs, which is a better reaction than he was expecting.

It all happens very quickly, after that. They leave at dawn the next day, off on some mad quest for the Jagged Crown—some relic worn by a long-dead human king, Rathyn pays attention only long enough to know what his role in all this will be. Unsurprisingly, all that is required of him is to shoot things.

Imperials get to the burrow first, because where else would the thrice-cursed humans be but directly in his way.

In the end, he leaves Galmar and his very _noisy_ Stormcloak escort behind, delving further into the ruins on his own when the group find themselves stuck behind a locked grate. 

He isn’t certain whether the men expect him to simply _magic_ them a way out of there, and he does not care. It becomes much easier to navigate the ruins like this, without the incessant clanking of armour around him negating what little advantage his ears give him. 

A few draugrs, one very ancient and desiccated king, and the crown is his.

It looks utterly absurd. Bits of bone and steel somehow all stuck together on an old helmet. He shakes his head and stuffs the thing in his pack, plays his fingers along the edge of the Word wall behind the ancient nordic dais and slowly makes his way back to his Stormcloak escort.

Galmar is very proud of his meagre accomplishment. Rat earns himself a hearty slap on the back that he could definitely have gone without, and only just manages to avoid the same treatment from the _other_ Stormcloaks by staring balefully at them until they divert their stares elsewhere. 

He feels a bit off using his obvious otherness like this, but if it spares him the accolades and the raucous jeers, then so be it. 

He leaves the crown with Galmar, offers the man a few reassuring smiles, and heads South, towards Riften.

Because he has been carrying a whole lot of shit pilfered from Elenwen’s private rooms and he very much needs to see his fence.

A fortnight passes, more uneventful than not. Maven Black-Briar is particularly pissy about the war, and Rat quickly makes himself scarce, preferring to keep his Stormcloak involvement private for the time being.

Brynjolf seems disappointed, but the man’s disappointment is his own fault; Rat has already told him he has no intention of living his life in the Ratway vaults, no matter how hilarious the thief finds the pun.

He steals because he can, because he is _good_ at it, and because some of Tamriel’s nobility could do with being brought down a few notches. Not out of some deep desire to please a shifty deity, and certainly not simply to display his wealth on a shelf in a dank little hole under Skyrim’s most corrupt city.

The Thieves’ Guild does not _need_ him.

His quest for the Word of Power that would allow him to stop the World Eater all but stalled while the Blades regroup, there is little he can really do except wander the wilds and hope to stumble upon an answer. Or visit the Greybeards again, but the last frustrating problem Rat wants to knock his head on is Arngeir’s relentless refusal to _help._

And so, of course, he returns to Windhelm. 

The place is as dreary as it ever is, though the mood itself seems lighter. Word has likely trickled out amongst the inhabitants of the hold that the crown is in Ulfric’s hands; everyone seems very chipper. 

Rat expects the worst, then, in the Grey Quarter. 

Because when Nords are happy, they are also generally feisty. And often drunk. A combination that only spells _danger_ to anyone they consider an enemy. 

He is surprised, then, to find everyone in fairly decent spirits. 

Ambarys enlightens him, when Rat sits down in front of the barkeep of the New Gnisis Cornerclub.

“He _what_?” Rat exclaims, as the other dunmer pours him a drink. 

Ambarys sneers. “It was a whole scene. I wasn’t there to see it, mind, but word around here is that our gracious Jarl publicly shamed one of his own for raising a hand to Suvaris.”

Rat blinks at him. “ _Out there?_ ”

“Yes, out there. Where else would it have happened? It’s only _you_ that gets to prance around the Palace of the Kings like you own the place,” Ambarys sighs, gravelly voice going a bit nasal in his spite.

“Is Suvaris alright?” Rat asks, toying with his glass. 

Ambarys snorts. “She has weathered a lot worse than Rolff’s clumsy blows.”

Rathyn freezes, staring at the other dunmer. “Rolff. Rolff Stone-Fist. Galmar’s brother. That was who Ulfric _reprimanded_?”

“Oh, not you as well. It was nothing more than a _performance_ —Bah, go on, then, what do I know.”

Rat only barely thinks to leave a few septims for the drink, and quickly steps away, elbowing his way through the crowd to reach the door again. In his haste, he forgets to brace for the cold, and the harsh, bitter wind neatly strips the breath from his lungs. The leather armour is never enough for this weather but he has no room in his pack to carry along enough heavy furs to make it worth the effort. 

There are plenty of inns and small villages dotted around these mountains, and he tries to limit his visits. 

Except for Windhelm, apparently, which keeps calling him back.

Despite the horrendous weather.

He finds the Jarl _outside_ , tonight. 

Ulfric is standing near the palace courtyard doors, hands clasped loosely behind his back with a few Stormcloak soldiers hovering nearby. He seems to be deep in thought, staring unseeing at the plaques that line the wall. 

Rat has never really bothered reading them. Something about past kings and Ysgramor. History has never particularly interested him. 

History has never put food in his belly.

Jarl Ulfric is visibly bothered by something, staring the way he is, brows furrowed and shoulders hunched. Whatever it is, it must not be the cold, because he barely seems to notice the freezing wind, whipping at his hair and cloak. 

Rat _whines_ as he approaches the man, after a brief detour near the central brazier to make a vain attempt at warming his hands. 

“Of all the nights you could have chosen to stand here in contemplation, you choose the middle of a blizzard when I decide to visit. Unnecessarily cruel,” he comments, casually. 

One of the Stormcloaks nearest Ulfric actually perks up, gloved hand reaching for his sword, but the Jarl gestures the man away. 

A neat trick, one Rat almost envies. 

He does not envy the seemingly heavy weight that comes with the crown, however.

“Dragonborn,” Ulfric states, half turning towards him.

Which suits Rat just fine, because this means he can sort of tuck himself against the stone wall, and hide his shivering body behind the bulk of the Jarl’s larger shape.

“I was told of your success at Korvanjund,” the man continues. “Galmar has sent the crown ahead of your return.”

Rat smiles, just slightly, pointedly looking up at Ulfric’s crown-less head. “And yet.”

To his surprise, the Jarl smiles back. “And yet. It seems presumptuous to wear it without having first convinced the others to a moot, wouldn’t you say?”

“The _others_ expect you to steal the throne out from under Elisif’s fair ass, so it hardly seems like it matters.”

“It matters,” Ulfric insists, sounding very certain about it. “I will have another task for you soon. A simpler one.”

“Tomorrow,” Rathyn interrupts, as politely as he can manage. “I’ve only just returned. I had... business in Riften.” He glances aside, to the two Stormcloak escorts now standing guard near the palace doors, and returns his attention to Ulfric. 

The man is enormous, though this seems more a product of the armour and the legend of his name than anything to do with the width of his shoulders. Tall, however, and very blond, and very recognizable. But also hunched over and exhausted, struggling with the weight of memories Rathyn himself would prefer not to dwell too long on. 

Almost certainly lonely.

There is no warrior wife, no Nord beauty at the Jarl’s side. 

No heir.

It seems irregular, when the Jarls of most of the other holds Rat has happened to peek his nose in seemed quite content to pump out very human brats, one after the other.

Still, perhaps it is a _little_ bold of him to reach up and tuck the cowl of the Jarl’s furry cloak over his head. He can feel the man freeze, as though the wind is only just now affecting him.

“What are you doing,” Ulfric asks, less as a question and more as a dumbfounded statement.

Unfortunate, since Rat himself is not entirely certain.

“Still recognizable, but I suppose it will do.”

Ulfric stays exactly where he is when Rat turns away. 

“I cannot leave the city. Wherever you think—”

“Candlehearth Hall. It’s hardly far. Considering how much I am being charged for the room, we may as well make use of it. Stay away from the palace and your affairs of state for one night. Away from Ysgramor and... whatever all of that—” Rat waves a hand vaguely at the plaques, filled with cramped engravings, “Whatever it all means. One night. You might not even be recognized, if you keep your mouth shut.”

For half a breath, he thinks he might have pushed too far. 

The Jarl’s face is unmoving. Blank. Staring back at him with an absolutely unreadable look on his stern face. And then he blinks, and something like a snort leaves him, breath clouding into vapour as he chuckles, softly. 

“There are few who would dare what you have just done,” he eventually says. 

Rat offers him a very heartfelt roll of the eyes. “Clearly then you have not been speaking to the right people. Come on, before your kin destroy the inn’s supply of decent ale.”

“Clearly,” Ulfric repeats, sounding pensive.

The mad thing is that he _follows_ when Rat leads him towards the bright, lively warmth of Windhelm’s only inn.


	5. Chapter 5

The elf is infuriating. Irreverent when he should not be, quiet and contemplative when Ulfric would prefer him not to dwell on whatever was said, and dismissive when he tries to redirect his attention. 

And all the while he stares back, the light of a hundred candles reflected in those inhuman eyes, his too-grey skin nearly black in the patch of shadow he has somehow chosen to sit in. 

He shivers and complains of the cold seeping in through the stones of one of Windhelm’s oldest buildings and yet refuses the furs and blankets that Ulfric suggests for him.

He _refuses_ to talk of war, of the coming battles, deftly avoiding Ulfric’s attempts to use him as a sounding board, and instead leads their stilted conversation into absurdity. Does Ulfric like the look of the serving wench? Do all Nords guzzle their ale so quickly? Is Windhelm ever not windy? 

Pointless triviality, and a transparent attempt to force him away from the war that rules his days. 

It is an odd consideration, though endearing all the same. 

Ulfric did not challenge Torygg on a whim. He did not demand of the Empire that Skyrim’s people be free to worship Talos without considering the Thalmor’s reaction to this obvious resistance. Freedom and liberation had been brewing in his gut since the White-Gold Concordat, since the Empire betrayed them all by signing away their rights to govern themselves, bending like a cheap whore to the Aldmeri Dominion’s utterly ridiculous demands.

He will fight them both if he has to. The Empire first, and the Thalmor second, if the former falls. If it means freedom for his people, and a life without war for their children, he will march whatever is left of his armies south beyond Cyrodiil himself, if he must.

But the Dragonborn—Rat, he keeps insisting, is a fine name to call him, nonsensically—seems not to care about any of it. 

How could he? He is not even _of_ Skyrim. 

He professes to being a wanderer, like his ancient kin. Calls it simpler, to have no roots, no _bones_ in the earth, no ancient stone to tie his own history to. 

Ulfric tells him it must be a very lonely way to live, without even ancestors for company. 

The elf shrugs, and pins him with another of his unsettling stares.

“You possess all of those things, my Jarl, and yet here we are,” he says, in his odd, lilting southern accent.

“Here we are,” Ulfric is forced to agree.

The tavern is not half as busy as he was expecting. Ildrerus has lead him to a somewhat isolated nook, nestled between a bookcase and one of the many hearths in the building, on its second floor. From this relatively quiet spot, they can survey even the goings on down below, should they wish to, and they are left mostly in peace.

Ulfric is not naive enough to think this little excursion is in any way going unnoticed. The elf is known, at least. His people recognize him as Dragonborn, rather than just another grey-skin. 

The last thing he needs is for his own troops to start doubting him, to start wondering if he, too, perhaps bends the knee to the Thalmor.

Ildrerus is Dunmer, not Altmer, but for most, this is a pointless distinction. Ulfric has had enough dealings with the Thalmor to recognize the differences, and they are many. Not the least of which is the elf’s disposition. He is quick-witted and dry, and his smile, as stilted and mocking as it sometimes seems, is easy to come. And _honest_.

There is nothing disdainful about this elf. Nothing that speaks of that detestable sense of superiority, that high-born attitude that Ulfric so desperately wished to erase from Elenwen’s sharply aristocratic features.

Two drinks into their odd conversation, Ildrerus asks him about Rolff Stone-Fist, and Ulfric sighs, leaning back into his chair to fix the elf with a steady glare.

“I should have known this would reach your ears,” he complains, quietly, hand curled loosely around his cup of mead.

“They are exceptionally large ears,” the elf agrees. 

The comment pulls a snort out of Ulfric, and he glances away, watching over the bannister as the inn’s patrons raucously gather near the bar, downstairs. They are all, to a man, Nords.

Something in Ulfric’s jaw tightens. 

“I was told the grey—the _elves_ , were complaining of isolation. Not of being beaten in the street,” he finally allows. “It is easier to contain a spy if all the unknowns are gathered in the same place but mistreating them only fosters distrust.”

Ildrerus, as expected, only stares back. After a beat, he leans in close, very deliberately. “Unknowns and spies. Do you hear yourself? These people were here in Windhelm _before you were born_ , my _Jarl_. There is nothing unknown about them. Only your baseless fear—”

“ _Enough_ ,” Ulfric barks, and the word echoes oddly, rattling the books on the shelves, behind the elf’s head. “You will not presume to tell me how to rule in my own hold.”

Ildrerus, frustratingly, does not immediately concede, meeting Ulfric’s glare with a steadfast stare of his own. He only looks away _long_ after having made his point; the elf never flinched. 

“Of course. Forgive me, Jarl Ulfric.”

It sounds entirely too much like rote platitude, meant to placate him, and nothing more. 

“I am doing what I can to keep my people safe,” Ulfric explains. He should not have to. He owes the elf nothing. “We can see to unity once the threat is passed.” 

“You did the _right thing_ ,” Ildrerus insists. “Suvaris is a hard worker, struggling to make the most of what she has. She does not need a reason to hate your cause; you should not give her, or others like her, one.”

“She should have allied herself to the cause when it became clear the Empire was corrupted,” Ulfric retorts, brows harshly knotting into a scowl. “ _We_ are bleeding for Skyrim, as we have bled for the Empire countless times before.”

“You cannot fight everyone, Ulfric,” the elf says, quiet. “Suvaris is a clerk, not a warrior. She already gives you what she can, simply by working here in your hold.”

“The Thalmor—”

“Will be the Empire’s problem, not yours.”

Ulfric hisses in a breath through his teeth, and buries his glare into his cup of mead. It is several long moments before he can speak without the Voice scratching at his throat. 

“You are a frustrating man to speak to, Dragonborn. A wonder Balgruuf has tolerated you this long.”

The elf smiles. “I know.”

— — —

Galmar has no words for him that night, when Ulfric returns, long past sunset, to the Palace of the Kings. They only exchange nods, both of them exhausted, and though recent events have meant the other’s brother is now furious with Ulfric, Galmar remains steadfast in his devotion.

His brother is a lush, a drunkard. 

Inconsequential in the face of the war Ulfric is waging, and Galmar knows it. 

And so Ulfric climbs the long stairs to the upper floors of the palace, weaves his way through dark, windowless stone corridors and closes the heavy oak doors behind him, when he finally reaches his bedchambers. His evening has been a confusing one, and the hour is much later than his usual.

His knees and knuckles _ache_ , because of the weather, and no amount of warming his hands or kneading at the joints will help. Old injuries, never set right, and only kept manageable because of Wuunferth’s unpalatable brews. 

The pain is a constant otherwise. Time and torture, marking the passage of years. 

Ulfric sighs, moves to the dresser and armour stand in the back of his room, and begins the slow process of peeling the armour off, of going from Jarl to simple man, alone.

He hasn’t had a page in decades, and will certainly not start _now_ , while the war rages around him and his people look to him for guidance. There will be time to rest, time for humility, once the throne in Solitude is secured.

And after that, who knows.


	6. Chapter 6

The peace council is pure chaos. 

There is an enormous, immortal, terrifying dragon-god, first of Akatosh’ children, threatening to swallow the entire world to fulfill an eons-old prophecy, and the Jarls bicker and quarrel like old maids. 

Balgruuf refuses to the bitter end to agree to lend him Dragonsreach, the fortress that was literally built to _house_ a captive dragon, until a truce is reached. 

And Rat knows a truce will be next to impossible to achieve, even before either Tullius or Ulfric agree to be there.

High Hrothgar has never been so busy, has never seen so many visitors, he thinks, as when both war delegations arrive, some eight or nine days after accepting Balgruuf’s terms. The fortress, usually deathly silent for all that it commonly houses at least six old monks, echoes with the very human sounds of clearing throats and shuffling feet, as everyone slowly trickles in. 

Separately, of course.

General Tullius only offers a curt nod when he sits at the Greybeards’ enormous round table, and Ulfric barely even acknowledges the man, but it is infinitely better than what Rat was expecting, which was outright hostility.

They exchange a few barbs, but it seems civil enough.

Until Elenwen arrives, walking tall and proud to sit at Elisif’s side.

The heavy stone chair actually slides backwards when Ulfric stands, and _these_ words are spat, filled with bitter anger and venomous, seething hatred. 

_Thalmor bitch_ , he calls her, and Rat, to his everlasting dismay, is forced to intervene. 

Tullius glares at him when he stands, and he knows this peace will only be a temporary one. 

“The Thalmor have no business here; this truce concerns the Empire and Ulfric Stormcloak’s rebellion. If she is only here to keep an ear on the pulse of the province, she can do so at the tit of rumour, like the rest of us,” Rathyn says, earning himself a shocked scoff from Elisir and an intense stare from Elenwen.

It seems like hours before the Altmer woman eventually stands, uncoiling her long body to sneer down her aquiline nose at Rat. 

He knows now how Malborn felt, working at that embassy. 

She calls it a petty victory, calls Ulfric by name, and the familiarity settles like bile in Rathyn’s throat. He has held this woman’s journals in his own hand, read her accounts of torture and blood. Stark, neatly-ordered details. Lines on a page, detached from the visceral reality of what she did. 

What she _dares_ still to do.

The negotiations are stilted and tense, after that. Ulfric agrees to sit for the talks, but Tullius is scalded, aware that he has lost his only real lever. 

The irony is not lost on Rat, and he wonders if those same words also echo in the Jarl of Windhelm’s mind.

Rathyn will be his lever, if he needs one. He leans _hard_ on Tullius, staunchly refuses to exchange Riften for the pittance that the General demands, and _insists_ that Markarth change hands instead, before Ulfric so much as opens his mouth to protest.

His hurry marks him as firmly not impartial, and both Tullius and Elisif remark as such, though Elisif only mutters it under breath, as though Rat cannot hear her perfectly fine.

Finally, when Tullius refuses to budge, Rat stands, and his voice is as quiet and measured as Master Arngeir’s when he speaks.

“No. You _dared_ bring a wolf to sit at this table, Tullius, and everyone assembled here knows full well why. Look me in the face and _lie_ if you must, but I have heard _enough_. You will cede Markarth to Stormcloak rule, and Ulfric will give you Riften.”

“Markarth is the seat of that murderer’s folly! It has been ours since the beginning of this war!” Tullius protests, standing up as well. 

“And you want Riften in exchange, the only passable doorway to the Southwest, and a hold you would have otherwise no hope of taking unless you also took Whiterun. You will give up Markarth or you will walk empty-handed from this place and I will _take it from you regardless_ ,” Rat replies, nose crinkling in angry distaste.

Master Arngeir’s stare is burning a hole in the side of his face, but he does not care. 

Afterwards, he disappears. 

Unable—or perhaps simply unwilling—to justify his own actions, he finds it simpler to avoid discussing it entirely. 

Delphine still finds him, perched on a crumbling bit of old stone well, out in the courtyard where he first learned how to project his Thu’um and _fly_ like a swift gale. 

She sits next to him, face impassive.

“Don’t.”

“The Greybeards are furious with you,” she says, sounding entirely too pleased about it. 

“I told them I was not meant for this political drivel. Arngeir insisted only I could mediate.” He snorts, shivering under his cloak. “What a load of soft bollocks. Tullius knew exactly who he was bringing to this council.”

“Hmm.”

Rat blinks, and looks up at Delphine’s calm profile. “What? _Hmm_. What does that mean?”

“It means nothing. But maybe your willingness to attribute willful malice to a man’s actions is just a sign that you are standing too close to _another_ to see clearly,” she replies, breezy and nonchalant.

“Well. _That_ is a bold statement.”

“Are you not a bold man, Dragonborn?”

“He is the _Jarl_ of Windhelm, Delphine.”

She shoots him a smile, and for the first time since he met her, she _actually_ looks genuinely amused. “And you are the chosen of Akatosh, gifted with the blood of dragons of old.”

“And Dunmer.”

Delphine shrugs. “It seems to me one compensates for the other.”

This time, Rat is the one to chuckle. “Coming from a simple tavern wench who spends her free time as an ancient mercenary and age-old enemy of the Thalmor.”

“We are all called to play our parts, Dragonborn. Yours, and his, simply happen to be bigger than most.”

“You sound like Arngeir.”

Her nose creases, and she shoots him such a baleful glare that Rat is forced to laugh.

“Hilarious. Stew in your indecision, then.”

Rat lets her go, turning back to the mountain and the bitter, clear cold of the nighttime air. 

He hates it, just as much as he hates Windhelm. 

But there is something to be said, for the harsh clarity of northern climes.

— — —

He has very little time to worry about the state of Ulfric’s rebellion, after that. 

Balgruuf agrees to let him Shout a challenge at the skies, right there in the middle of Whiterun, and the madness of this plan only becomes obvious once the dragon answers it in kind, swooping into the fortress to grab archers from the walls and belching fire onto the city below.

Somehow, they manage to trap the beast, the ancient mechanisms that gave Dragonsreach its name still functioning despite their age and disuse. 

Odahviing is the dragon’s name, and it is none too pleased to be trapped, but Rat has what he needs.

A location for the World-Eater’s eyrie, and a way to get there.

 _If_ he trusts the dragon not to drop him from the skies, of course.

He has little choice, regardless. There is no way to make the climb up to the peaks of the Jerall mountains. He will have to fly, or let Alduin feed on the souls of the dead.

Things only get madder once Rat reaches the place. There are bloody dragons _everywhere_ , and he has to dodge fire and ice as he goes, climbing up the last few steps until he finally reaches his goal.

A portal to the underworld.

Nord legends made real. 

The entire fight feels like a dream; the air is vibrant and swimming with colours, and the people he meets are legends in their own right, ancient Nord heroes, come to Sovngarde to enjoy their eternal rest.

And their eternal feast, apparently, because their famed mead hall is bursting with food.

The fight itself is almost an afterthought, in the face of all that, and Alduin, the World-Eater destined to end all things, dies not with a great Shout but with a pitiful sigh, as though he had been waiting for this all along, for millennia.

Perhaps he had. Perhaps anyone would be exhausted of time who were immortal.

There is _nothing_ left of the great beast when the horrible stripping of his soul finally ends. Only bright, sparkling motes of dust on the air, spinning gently to mark his passing. And nobody will know what happened, because Alduin died on the plains of Sovngarde, where no mortals may walk.

It almost seems wrong, but Rat is nervous enough about even being here in the first place that he does not care to linger to wonder at the philosophical rightness of it all. 

He wakes as if from a dream, and leaves Paarthurnax on his mountain to ponder the death of his kin.

He is _done_. The world can now take care of itself; Rat no longer wants anything to do with it.

If only.

For whatever cursed reason, the Greybeards announce Alduin’s death to all of Skyrim as he is painstakingly making his way down the Seven Thousand Steps. 

Rat turns and glares up at the mountain.

“Ah, yes. Because what I _really_ needed was to be called a hero. And _recognized_ ,” he hisses, mostly to himself. 

The passing fox that startles at the rumbling of the Greybeards’ Shout certainly does not care to listen.

“So much for Brynjolf’s plans.”

It seems pointless to return to the Thieves’ Guild _now_ , especially with Maven Black-Briar having finally usurped her way into Laila Law-Giver’s position. He is not fool enough to openly defy her by walking, bold as brass nuts, into her city. 

He is tired of Delphine and Esbern’s meddling, made uncomfortable by Astrid’s insistence that he kill all of his problems, and no longer certain of his welcome in either Solitude or Whiterun, regardless of his exploits.

Windhelm it is, then. And perhaps now that the World-Eater is dead, he will finally be allowed to purchase Hjerim. 

If the damned place is still empty.

— — —

Rat arrives to madness. Again.

Windhelm is in an uproar, and he quickly figures out why; now that the truce no longer holds, Ulfric is planning to march on Whiterun.

It seems almost a joke, a laugh at his expense.

After everything he has just accomplished, the Jarls will throw armies at each other in some vain attempt at controlling the great plains of Whiterun Hold.

At least now all those men dying will not be consumed by the World-Eater when they reach Sovngarde.

What a waste.

Hjerim, of course, is locked, and there is too much busy uproar in the streets for Rat to attempt to pick the lock in broad daylight. His only choices now become Candlehearth Hall, or waiting until nightfall so he can finally infiltrate the small estate that was _meant_ to be his months ago.

Exhausted and angry at the way the past few weeks of his life have devolved into utter absurdity, Rathyn decides to simply scale the walls of the Palace of the Kings again.

If the Jarl wants to wage war in the wake of Rat’s victory, he can damn well at least provide him with a soft bed and a warm room to sleep in.

Perhaps even an occupied one, depending on his mood.


	7. Chapter 7

There is a pile of dark leather and coiled belts on the stone floor, half a pace from the door inside Ulfric’s bedchamber, when he turns in. 

The day has been a particularly long and tiring one. He does not make the decision to attack Whiterun lightly, and so the march must be well-prepared, the assault planned to the very last detail to ensure they are ready for anything that Balgruuf might throw at them in retaliation. 

The Jarl of Whiterun cannot afford a long siege, not now, so soon after the dragon weakened his walls and chased away much of his trade. 

His larders are empty. His men scattered. His defences weakened. 

Now is the time to strike, despite how much Ulfric wishes this could have been avoided altogether.

But Balgruuf has made his choice, and the plains of Whiterun are key to a successful campaign in the West. If Ulfric wants to risk Solitude, he needs to sweep the great plains. Dawnstar is his. And now, Markarth. 

Tullius was a fool to ask for Riften; if Ulfric can take Whiterun, he will be within a stone’s throw of the capital. 

And Tullius’ main forces. 

Striking now ensures that the General will never get his support from Cyrodiil. And even if the Empire does eventually send another legion, then Ulfric will be entrenched and his men will have had time to rest. His armies will be fresh, while the Imperials will have just weathered the road.

This must happen fast, if it is to happen at all. 

And so he has spent his day in planning, and thought to rest early, to prepare for tomorrow’s assault. 

Not so, because clearly someone has already been here.

And left a pile of sodden leather garb right in front of the door. As a warning, perhaps, so he does not bark a surprised question again. 

Ulfric steps around the discarded armour, and the heavy oak door swings silently closed behind him. 

The bedchamber is dark, the fire in the hearth nearly burnt to ashes and the candle flames flickering madly, down to oily stubs, but there is still more than enough light to see by. And the sight that greets him is an absurd one, one he would be shamed to admit he has already imagined.

More than once.

The elf’s dark limbs are bare, thrown all whichever way as he lies in Ulfric’s own bed, one dark thigh tucked under the heavy wolf fur blanket and the other spread, knee bent into a graceful arch. He is wearing nothing but his small-clothes, shockingly pale against the darkness of his skin, and a few silver baubles. Beads in what little hair he keeps long. 

An odd amulet, resting against the hollow of his throat.

Ulfric’s own throat feels tight. 

This is presumptuous. Irregular. Shockingly bold.

He should make some noise to wake the perceptive little shit. Call for his guards and have the man thrown in the dungeon. Renege the elf’s involvement with the rebellion and rid himself of this... pull. 

He does, of course, none of those things. 

Instead Ulfric takes a deep, steadying breath, and moves to the hearth, throwing a few logs into the dying embers of the fire until it is burning bright and hot again. Despite how sweltering the room already feels. 

And after, he moves closer rather than away. Settles gingerly on the very edge of his bed, one hand curled into a tight fist against his own thigh and the other _itching_ to reach out. 

He does not reach for the elf’s inner thigh, where the skin looks thin and warm and soft, completely hairless. He reaches for a shoulder, which feels just as hot under his palm when he gently shakes the elf awake. 

He does not get half the reaction he expects. 

The elf twitches and startles aware, hissing in a short breath through his teeth and producing a nasty-looking, twisted little ebony blade from somewhere under Ulfric’s own pillow. It swings towards his throat even as the elf blinks at him, and Ulfric is left staring, for half a breath, at the wild panic in the other’s odd, glowing eyes. 

He does not move, and waits until the elf recognizes him. 

“B’vehk, what... You startled me half to death,” Ildrerus hisses, skinny, hairless chest moving on a few harried breaths. “Did you not _see_ the armour—”

“I saw it,” Ulfric interrupts, pointedly glancing down at the hand holding the dagger to his throat. 

The elf lowers his hand, sighing. He sends the knife sailing into the sheets, and sets a dark forearm across his brow, still breathing laboriously. 

“Marching on _Whiterun_?” he asks, and the question comes out sounding petulant and tired. 

Ulfric smiles, unseen.

“That is what war usually involves, yes. Fighting for land and throne.”

“I was in Sovngarde. The mead hall, a lot of loud battle cries and Shouting. A lot of very nordic Nords, and you would march on Whiterun the _day_ I return,” the elf complains, the words falling from his lips like so much nonsensical tales. 

“Sovngarde,” Ulfric repeats.

“ _Sovngarde_. Alduin is dead.”

“I thought _you_ dead.” A pause, and Ildrerus slowly lowers his forearm to pin him with an unreadable look. Ulfric looks away. “The Greybeards announced it but—“

“And you mourned by going to war with Balgruuf?”

“Was I meant to?” Ulfric asks, brow furrowing. He glances aside at the elf, who is still reclining. “Mourn you.”

In his bed. On _his_ sheets. 

“I’m not certain how much more _obvious_ I must be, my Jarl,” Rathyn sighs. “You have not sold Hjerim. You have not kicked me out of these rooms. This bed.” 

A slim, dark hand fists into the padded cotton at the collar of Ulfric’s gambeson, and he reaches up, breath knotting in his throat, to curl fingers around the other man’s thin wrist. “You ask for _too much_ , elf,” he rasps, dismayed to hear himself sound so breathless.

Ildrerus smiles, displaying shockingly white teeth. “You haven’t heard the half of it yet.” He settles himself more upright, weight resting on a bent elbow, and _tugs_ , just softly enough to be felt.

Ulfric could quite easily ignore it. He does not have to follow, to lean in closer. 

He does anyway.

“Shall I tell you?” the elf whispers, and the words, soft and breathy, settle like a brand in Ulfric’s gut. “Or shall I simply show you?”

He might as well have Shouted it, for all that it shatters him. The words break against walls long since ignored, and Ulfric falls. 

It has been _years_ , since he last bothered with this. Wenches paid in coin and housing within the palace. Until he lost any sense of purpose. Until he stopped trying to move past the scarring and the mangled reminders of everything lost. The heirs that will never be his, the brands and the pulling, the remembered agony and his own sobs, pulled to the surface of his mind every time a hand, no matter how soft, fell to his skin.

Ildrerus does not _care_. He surges like a wild wave, blunders past all of Ulfric’s whispered, grunted warnings, laughs when he twitches away and settles in close to press apologetic kisses to his brow. 

He whispers shocking _filth_ in Ulfric’s ear when he flags, pulling increasingly desperate groans from him until he crests into a release he has not felt in what seems like a lifetime. 

He drifts, after that. Loses himself in sleep and the soft warmth of the elf’s limbs. Fingers playing at the sweat-soaked hair at his temples. Soft, amused chuckling in his ear. 

Ulfric wakes to an empty bed but finds a scrap of parchment inches from his nose, on his pillow. 

The words make him smile.

— — —

_I am leaving ahead of your fool march to try and talk some sense into Balgruuf. Divines help me if I let you make a ruin of Whiterun, and I have something there I need to retrieve. A gift. Saw it on Ysgramor’s back in the mead hall. It was an axe. Wuuthrad. An absolutely heinous-looking thing, very heavy, very ancient and very Nord. You may have it if you swear to leave Whiterun intact._

_You had best wait for my word. I intend to march on Solitude with you. Now that we no longer risk walking into a dragon’s waiting maw along the road, we may as well finish this mad race to unite the Jarls._

_As for... Well. I will not name her here, but I swear to chase her down if I have to, you have my word. That one will not go to your ridiculous feast of an afterlife. Not if I can help it._

_Yours,_

_Rat_


End file.
